Okay, it’s not John Grisham, it’s me – the doughy TV guy. But what better way to get you to sit up and take notice.

I’m Paul Guyot. "Ghee-Oh." You probably saw me at some mystery conference – I was the guy lurking near the iced tea cart, looking about as comfortable as a cat in a burlap sack.

Or maybe you used to read Inkslinger… Yeah, yeah, I quit doing the whole blog thing. Buncha self-indulgent bullshit, you ask me.

Did I mention how self-indulgent I am? So, I’m back. Why? Well, to quote that famous line from one of the Godfather films… "I am Enzo, the baker."

Wait…

Anyway, apparently, Pari and Jay-Tee felt like they wanted to see how low Murderati’s readership could drop, so they enlisted my questionable talents. I’ll try and keep your attention, but completely understand if on the days I post, you end up surfing over to Bill Crider’s place for a report on A-NS’s latest shenanigans.

All right, with that out of the way, let’s get this bloggy started. I’m gonna be talking about all sorts of stuff. And the first thing is… this Rachel Ray chick. WTF? She’s everywhere. She gets more press attention than Lindsey Lohan’s nipples.

Can we say nipple here, Pari? Have I already crossed the line? Crap. Okay, forget nipples.

This is Murderati, baby. Murderati is to the blogosphere what the First Comics edition of LONE WOLF AND CUB was to comic books. There may be more popular ones, but none as freaking cool. I should not be allowed within these walls.

Is this post reminding anyone of bad James Joyce? Let’s stay on point.

For those of you that are asking what Charlie Sheen’s Bud Fox asked himself – "Who am I?" – let’s find out some lesser known things…

I believe in God.
I believe Roy Buchanan was the greatest guitarist who ever lived.
I believe Emmitt Smith is the most overrated player in NFL history.
I believe an author who writes a great cozy about a crime-solving cat is every bit as good a writer as an author who writes a great hard-boiled story filled with graphic sex, violence and language.
I believe Sheldon Turner is going to be the next Brian Helgeland.
I believe Floyd Landis is innocent and the American media has turned its back on him.
I believe most parents refuse to admit they don’t spend enough time with their kids.
I believe Jay-Tee is truly oblivious to how good a writer she is.
I believe Formula 1 drivers are overrated and NASCAR drivers are underrated, but that F1 drivers are better drivers than the NASCAR  wheelmen.
I believe it’s fine to drink red wine with fish.
I believe the best writing being done right now in Hollywood is for television, and not the movies.
I believe people who blog about themselves and what they believe are generally boring and really have nothing to say.

Oh, and what do I do?

I am a television writer with a few short stories published, and a novel so very unfinished that it cost me dinner with this guy. I used to hang out at a lot of crime writing cons, but not so much anymore. I started feeling even more lame than I normally do – being there without some published work to push.

But I will be at February’s Left Coast Crime  for no other reason than to celebrate the launch of an incredible new voice on our genre’s scene: Phil Hawley’s STIGMA will be released in February, and released is the right word. Harper-Collins is releasing this talented new scribe onto the unsuspecting reading public. This guy is very good and is gonna be very big. Phil also happens to be one of the great men of the world.

I hate him.

So, where was I? Right, Bud Fox.

So, yeah, I write for television. What’s the difference between that and writing prose for publication? Several things, but the biggest for me is that the prose scribe will rarely have an editor say, "Put a severed head in the opening pages cuz kids dig severed heads!"

Yes, it’s true. One of the more infamous "notes" given to the writing staff of a network series I worked on. Why was it so outrageous? After all, perhaps the show dealt with horror stories, or serial killers, or something.

Um, no. The show was about cyber crime. And there was about as much coherent reason for a severed head in the opening as there would be to put a car chase in the opening pages of Cheever’s THE WAPSHOT CHRONICLE. Not that we were producing Cheeveresque material.

I have way too many stories like this. THAT, folks, is what you can look forward to in the glitzy world of screenwriting. I’d rather make a living writing prose, but… Robert Gottlieb once said that a writer has about a one in a hundred thousand chance of making a living as a novelist. I think the odds are better with screenwriting (not by much) but only because Hollywood is an overpaid and undereducated burg.

How did I get in the club? Easy. Luck. Pure and simple. Yes, I think my writing was decent, but that means nothing in Hollywood. Who you know? Nope. It’s: Who Knows the Person That You Know, and how paranoid, self-loathing, and Machiavellian are they?

If I’d never cracked the snow globe of Hollywood, I’d still be writing, just not getting paid. I’ve been a writer (whether I knew it or not) since I was eleven.

My first piece of fiction was written in the back of my 5th grade class. It made me an instant celebrity, and girls who had made fun of the gap in my teeth just days before, were now sending me notes and sitting by me at lunch.

A career was born.

To keep our cars working right we take them in for tune-ups.

MacLean and others like him keep their MA skills sharp by going in for tune-ups. Eddie Van Halen still grabs a guitar and gives his fingers a one hour tune-up every Monday morning.

Why should writing be any different?

I’m not nearly as good a writer as EVH is a guitar player, so it’s no wonder I still drag my writer’s ass to the mechanic.

My mechanic is Stephen King. His book On Writing is a Tour De Force for me. Yes, there’s a smattering of scribes who feel the book is "beneath them" – that it’s too basic for their superior intellect and ability – they can’t get anything out of it. Well, not me. My pants ain’t that fancy.

There are other great writing books in my opinion. Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott, Morrell’s Lessons From a Lifetime…, George’s Write Away, and so on.

And there are some that truly suck – again in my opinion. Story by that blow-hard Robert McKee, though I have met a couple of good writers that love it… a couple, as in 2. The self-indulgent Writing Down the Bones by Goldberg (Natalie, not Lee), and the cliche-ridden How-To’s by Frey. But I should point out here that, just as every writer’s personal process is different, so is what they take or don’t take away from writing books.

Anyway, the King book works for me better than anything. While the first third is a recap of how he became a writer, the rest is the most practical, no-nonsense, black-and-white study on how to write better. It’s about the language (the subject of which – in his now famous conversation with Amy Tan –  inspired the book), as well as the process. Something so few books dare to tackle. He gives real world examples, spells things out, and does it all without talking down to the reader.

That’s the kind of mechanic I need. My tendency is to go off on gaseous tangents (from a process point) and it’s my mechanic’s gruff grabbing of my collar and thrusting me back into my chair that I need.

With the possible exception of one guy floating around the ‘Sphere these days, we all believe we are still learning as writers. One of the reasons I loved my recent excursion to Seattle for Left Coast Crime was to sit and talk with other writers. We all have different processes, all write different stories in very different ways, yet we’re all on the same road, trying to get to the same place.

I think my Seattle trip was why I popped my worn out audio tapes of On Writing into my deck this week and just drove and drove. I was seeing my mechanic, getting a tune-up. And it’s worked.

See, though I hate how lazy our society has become with language – "impactful" is NOT a word people, despite its use by Corporate America, and "Yea" is NOT spelled Y-A-Y, good God don’t get me started – I am still in need every now and then of a review of the basics. The foundations that all good, solid writing is based upon. Not only for the literal pen-to-paper writing, but for my writer’s mind and soul.

So, I’m here today to tell you – all of you; from the folks who are still slogging through finishing their first work, to you seasoned and successful pros – that it doesn’t hurt to go see your mechanic every now and then. Get a tune-up. Check under the hood, change the oil, replace the spark plugs. That’s a big one – replacing the spark plugs.

If you haven’t had a tune-up in a while, get one, no matter who your mechanic is. I promise that your motor will run better, cleaner, and faster.

Now, on a personal, somewhat homoerotic note… I mentioned LCC earlier. Well, I have to give a shout out, and throw some props to some new friends I made in Seattle. These folks are not only good writers (they truly are), but they’re good people. So, thank you Sean, Brett, and Rob for helping me have one of the best Cons ever by breaking bread and beer, talking shop and life (and pens!), kicking my ass, and for that surreal combination of joy (my first unofficial signing) and terror (no comment) inside the Seattle Mystery Bookshop.

*sniff* I love you guys! *sniff*

I was going to do something on short story writing, but I’m putting that off. For those not wanting to wait two Tuesdays, I suggest surfing over to James Lincoln Warren’s wonderful weblog The Scribbler. He has a rather controversial post regarding Hemingway’s infamous six word short story:

For Sale
Baby Shoes
Never Used

I love it. Jim hates it. But again, for that discussion, head over to The Scribbler.

What I’m going to waste your time with today is process stuff. Namely mine, cuz, you know, it’s my Tuesday. Most of you familiar with my long dead blog INK SLINGER remember the great novel race between David J. Montgomery and myself – Who could finish their opus first?

Well, Monty kicked my ass. Like a one-legged sharecropper in a skillet full of kittens.

What?

Anyway, Monty won. I lost. Big. I never even made it halfway through mine. In fact, 2006 marked the fourth – yes, FOURTH – freaking year that I had been "working on a novel." I can’t believe I’m admitting this public. But yes, I’m a poseur.

It gets worse, because… does rewriting the same 50 pages over and over count as working on a novel? I say no. It counts as being a freaking loser, being afraid of failure AND of success, and being a complete confidence-lacking dweeb. If you tell people you’re working on a novel, but keep writing the same pages over and over, you’re a liar.

So, I quit. Around August of this year I looked at all my scribblings, realized it was all junk, and said that’s it – I’m out. I’m a screenwriter, not a novelist. I can craft a short story now and then, because the form is similar to screenwriting, but I cannot and will not ever write a novel.

The timing was perfect. I was buried in a TV pilot and had no time for the frivolity of prose. But by the end of October my pilot work was done and there I sat, wondering what to tackle next. Another pilot? A feature? A short story? A novel?

Did I just use the N word? What the hell was "novel" doing still floating around my skull? I’d exorcised those demons. But there it was, still hammering at the back of my brain like a Hindu with a waffle iron.

What?

Anyway, I decided, instead of going at it again, I’d look back over the past four years and try and learn why I was unable to do it. And once I started this self-examination, I quickly realized the two fatal errors I’d made. And both were a result of nothing more than a lack of confidence in myself – I had never done it, so I didn’t believe I could, and therefore was doing a couple of really stupid things….

The first one was that I was writing in other people’s voices (see Alex’s post on style). At the height of my production on those lame 50 pages, I was reading voraciously. And unbeknownst to me, I was writing like whatever author I was reading. Or I should say, trying to write like them. Some days I was trying to be Ridley Pearson or Lee Child, or Michael Connelly. Other days it was James Lee Burke – boy, are those some hilarious pages to read now.

I lacked such confidence in my own prose voice that I wasn’t even trying. I was copying. And the worst part was, I wasn’t even aware of it. Or maybe I was, and thought it was a good idea? God, I hope not.

The second fatal error I was making was in the actual process. Not only was I writing in others’ voices, but I was going about it, working at it, like other writers work – as opposed to working like Guyot does.

I’m a screenwriter. My process is (generally): I get an idea. I flush out the idea – we call it "Breaking the story." Once I break the story, I outline the story. Maybe not a full blown scene by scene outline, but I give myself a road map – so I know where the hell I’m going. I have to know where I’m going in order to, not just to get there, but so I can take detours if need be. Then once I have my map or outline, only then do I sit down and begin writing the actual story.

note for comments discussion: what is your process and have you ever screwed it up?

With my novel, I wasn’t working the way I work. I was trying to be Connelly or Burke, and just "let the characters take me where they want to go." What a load of crap. I applaud and admire those of you who can sit down without an outline or even a map of sorts and start writing.

No, that’s not right. I admired those of you who can do that AND FINISH. Anyone can start writing. Only a chosen few can actually finish… something good.

So, cut to just after Thanksgiving. I’d had this little revelation and was excited about the idea of – "What if I tried to write a novel the way I know how to write? And in my own voice?"

And the winner of this year’s IT’S SO OBVIOUS YOU IMBECILIC NINNY Award goes to… Paul Guyot!

Thank you, thank you. *sniff* I’d like to thank the Academy…

Anyway, I decide to try and do an outline for my novel idea. And guess what? I can’t. Because there’s no story! It’s a beginning, not a story. A 50-page opening with a cool character. But by now, I’m juiced. I want this; the hunger is back. So I go to my trusty story file – we all have them: that little folder on your computer where you drop any and every idea (or germ of an idea) for a story, hoping it’ll be just what you need one day.

I found my very first novel idea. The one I had abandoned early on because…It wasn’t commercial enough, wasn’t unique enough. I did what I’ve been preaching to aspiring writers never to do – try and write to the marketplace.

So I take my original idea and begin outlining. Seriously, just to see how far I can get before it falls apart. And guess what? Yep, I finish the freaking outline. Only seven pages. But damn, if I don’t have a beginning, middle and end. And characters I like!

I go through the entire Christmas holiday with this beautiful outline sitting on my desktop and don’t write a word. Because I’m scared to death. Mostly to fail again. But then I have one of those conversations – you know, where someone you respect tells you exactly what you’d tell them, but could never tell yourself? And I decide to do it. And my mindset is perfect – because I am not writing the thing to get published. Chances are it will never be read, let alone published. I’m doing it because I want to write this story with these characters.

I’m writing it for me. To just do it. I’m a freaking Nike ad. And I’m loving it. I started this first of the year, more or less. And I’ve seriously detoured from the outline twice already – something I could not have done waiting for the characters to start the car and head off on their own journey. I can always get back on the road whenever I need to, because now I have the freaking map!

While I won’t tell you how far along I am – I think looking at word counts can seriously F-up a writer – I will say that I’ve written more pages than ever before (yes, I passed 50), but more importantly, I’m enjoying it. I am loving writing this thing. And it may suck. It may be complete trash.

But it’ll be my trash. Written my way and in my own voice.

Guyot

Today we start a new biweekly tag known as IF I PICKED CHARACTERS’ WATCHES.

Barry Eisler‘s John Rain would wear the Jaeger-LeCoulture Reverso Quantième Perpétuel in 18k rose gold.

Alas, my interview with Phil Hawley will have to be postponed today.  I’m down with a flu bug I caught at Left Coast Crime.  It would be terribly ungracious of me to not be able to thank those who comment – or chit-chat with all of you – and Phil wouldn’t be able to be here either – he’s got tons of kids that need his attention.  That’s what happens when you’re a dedicated busy doctor first, and thriller writer second.

PHIL HAWLEY, JR.    http://www.philiphawley.com

BUT – that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you what a terrific book Phil’s debut is!  STIGMA is one fast ride that will keep you – as they say – glued to the edge of your seat.

STIGMA will be out in March and believe me when I say it is one of the best debut’s ever.  I mean, have I ever led you astray?  So get your order in (favorite indie naturally) and be prepared to sit in awe that this is a first book.  We’ll catch up with Phil soon and it goes without saying that all of us here at Murderati wish him great success.

But please do stop back next Wednesday and have a few laughs with Jim Born and Evil E.

I love movies. For a long time now. So much so that I am one of those really annoying people who don’t say movies. I say "film."

I love film.

Film was and always will be my first love. Since that April night when I lost my virginity to film – sitting on a camping chair in the bed of my father’s pickup truck at the Frontier drive-in in Arizona… watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

For the next twenty years film would consume me. It was the love of my life. The love I lost my virginity to. The love I tried exotic new positions with. Explored things I’d previously never imagined. Years later, I would get into television just so I could always be near film. Be at the same parties, in the same room. But film never loved me like I loved it. And in the back of my mind I always knew it. But you know how when you’re in the most erotic, passionate, intense relationship of your life, you tend to overlook things like… common sense?

Eventually, as in most all relationships that have nothing but raw passion as their foundation, I started to want less flash and more depth. My love of film, while pure ecstasy at times, became… I don’t know, tiring. Sometimes I’d have a headache. Or want to talk. Or just not be in the mood. Or when I was in the mood, film wouldn’t return my call. It was always on film’s schedule.

Then I met books.

Books I could talk to. Books I could sit in a coffee house with for hours and just chill. I could be in bed, on the can, even driving, and books were always there. Anytime I wanted them and regardless of my mood, books were the Holly Hunter to film’s Angelina Jolie. It’s not like it was with film, but it’s solid, fun, honest, and every so often we get freaky.

So, I’ve been in this monogamous relationship with books for a while, and then the other night, totally unexpectedly, film shows up in my living room in the form of Brick.

Brick is a film made for just under $500,000 by a passionate USC grad named Rian Johnson. The film is classic noir; an American private eye story, containing all the elements – the smoky and at times ironic score (which I’ve already added to my iTunes), the beautifully noir cinematography, a story almost too complex at times, and a screenplay worthy of Hammett, Mamet, and the Coen brothers.

And it’s set in high school.

Yes, that’s right. The entire story takes place in and around a high school. In fact, I think there’s maybe two characters over thirty in the whole thing. But this film is so good it could have been set in pre-school or anywhere else for that matter.

Now, this is not a perfect film, but what is? And I’d wager most criticisms come from jealous film wannabes who are pissed they didn’t think of the idea. There are few films made in today’s world that one can’t find flaw with. And it being a subjective medium, well, there you go.

Brick is simply an incredibly wonderful way to spend an hour and fifty minutes. For anyone, but especially for those of us who dearly love the genre.

I rented the dvd from Netflix, and it sat in my house for two weeks. I wasn’t in the mood. Literally. Then one night, I was about to go to bed, and I was thinking that I really wanted to see the next dvd in my Netflix queue (a blues documentary). But I needed to send back that Brick film. I couldn’t even remember why I’d rented it. Oh, yeah, it was a detective story or something. I decided to put it in and fall asleep to it, then I’d be able to send it back in the morning…

I stayed up until after midnight, completely consumed from the opening frame. And then I watched it again, listening to the commentary.

Film was back in my life. Now, I know it was a one-night stand, but Good Christ… for that one night, film and me, we did things Jenna Jameson’s never tried. 

The great thing is that books understand. Books forgive. Books will always take me back, even when I don’t deserve it. And there will be another night, another lonely, rainy night when there’s a knock at my door, and I’ll open it to find film standing there… wearing black thigh highs and Christian Louboutins, a cigarette dangling from its bee-stung lips. And I’ll stand aside and let film enter.

Guyot

This week’s If I Picked Characters’ Watches:

SJ Rozan’s Bill Smith would wear a 1961 Omega Seamaster…

Most of you reading this know him, or know of him.

Marcus Sakey

One of the myriad of Killer Year authors, which I guess needs to be known as "Killer Year 2007" because apparently, it’s a franchise now and there’s going to be a Killer Year gaggle every year.

Anyway, I’m not here to talk about that. I want to talk about Marcus Sakey. And I really hope this gets read by people who don’t know about him. If you’re already aware of Sakey, please forward this permalink to someone who doesn’t know about him.

So… Marcus Sakey. You’re probably thinking he’s my buddy, right? Because the only thing more common in the mystery community than a book with a dead body is pimping one’s friends.

But guess what? I’ve never met Marcus Sakey.

And I doubt he has any idea who I am, nor does he care. The first time I ever heard of him was at Thriller Fest last July. He was part of a panel that I was taking in. I’ve never even read his book THE BLADE ITSELF. Well, all of it, anyway. Let me explain.

I saw Sakey on this panel and I knew that he was a good writer. Very, very good. Just by listening to him. By hearing the way he talked about writing. See, the people who get it – who truly get writing, they talk about it differently than the rest of us, who are simply trying to convince people we know what we’re doing.

Afterward, I was mentioning my impression of Sakay to someone and one-thing-led-to-another and suddenly I had an ARC of THE BLADE ITSELF in my hand. At least I think it was an ARC. It was loaned to me. "Here, read it and give it back," the person told me.

I went to the Biltmore lobby and started reading. At page forty-seven, the person walked up and said, "I need that back. I’m not supposed to show it to anyone." So I never finished. Never even got to page forty-eight. And those that have been lucky enough to read the book, you know that page forty-seven is NOT where you want to stop reading!

After that, I checked out Sakey’s web site, read some Q&A’s with him, read his thoughts on writing, read a couple of excerpts from the book. And after all that and those forty-seven freaking pages, I knew that Sakey wasn’t just a great writer…

He has the combo platter.

See, there are great writers. And there are great storytellers. And every once in a very rare while, God looks down and hands the combo platter to someone. A great writer AND a great storyteller. You may think there’s a lot of them out there, but guess what – you’re wrong. And I know a few of you believe great storytelling is great writing and vice-versa… I used to think that, until I read each without the other.

Now, I love a good story. If it’s written well, or even just decently, I’ll go with it. But I also love reading great writers. Even if the story sucks, I admire the greats and their way with the language, the imagery, setting. The NYTBSL is packed full of great storytellers. And every so often a great writer manages to make the list as well.

But damn, when you come across someone with the combo platter, it is as good as it gets. And to find a new writer with the CP, well, I am just really, really excited.

Some of you might think I’m overstating, but… you’re wrong. You can cruise writer web sites and see how few great writers are out there, even fewer with the combo platter. Actually, most greats have little or no web site content. The writers with pages and pages of fancy 411 on themselves are usually not that great. They’re compensating. Just look at their "advice for aspiring writers" sections. It’s all rehashed bullshit, the same blatherings just reworded. Not that they’re not great people, now, but we’re talking craft. Art, even.

Oh, by the way, I’m including myself in all this. I am not a great writer. I think I’m a pretty decent storyteller, but I have a long way to go to be a great writer. And my stuff for aspiring writers – other than the Hollywood business part of it – is all rehashed bullshit. Hell, it’s pretty much all bullshit.

Anyway, look at some random writer’s advice pages. Then look at Sakey’s. Read some random to-be-published writer’s excerpt of his or her opus, then read Sakey’s. Look at his writing and storytelling – his use of the language, his dialogue, his ability to give vital character and/or story information without one extra word. Notice how visceral his telling of the story is. How he is able to keep his imagery so strong without ever being overpowering or overwrought.

And if you want a nice reality check, do what I did: after all that, look at your own stuff. Chances are huge that you’ll be like me, and realize you’ve got a lot of work to do. Unless you’re some full-of-yourself asshat. Then life is great all the time. Good on ya.

Do I sound a little angry in this post? I don’t mean to be. But maybe I am. I guess I’m a little jealous of Sakey’s talent… but actually, I’m not. I’m excited by it. I’m turned on by it. I’m inspired by it.

What it is, is I’m pissed off at myself. I know a large number of you don’t give a shit about great writing so long as the story works. And a lot of you can’t stand reading amazing prose if there’s no story to grab you. As stated, I can enjoy both. I guess it’s because the combo platter is so rare, that I’m used to settling as a reader. Taking what’s out there. So then, when I do find it – especially in someone without a dozen books under their belt – it makes me look in the mirror and think: perhaps if I had understood earlier, or worked harder, studied more, pushed myself more… maybe I could’ve had the combo platter.

But I doubt it. I think it’s even more rare for it to be learned, as opposed to a God-given gift.

Okay, let’s end this rant. Marcus Sakey. He’s not just another debut author, he’s something special, folks. If you don’t agree, guess what – you’re wrong. He’s got the combo platter, and in the coming years everyone’s going to realize it. I can’t wait for Left Coast Crime so I can buy the book and finish THE BLADE ITSELF. Yes, I know I can order it from Amazon, but I’m really trying to get off my Internet-induced-fat-ass and buy more from independents. Whether you buy from Ammy or an indy, buy THE BLADE ITSELF, and learn while you’re entertained.

Feel free to comment all you want about how great Marcus Sakey is, or what an asshat I am, or anything else specific to this post. But I’m asking you, no, I’m telling you, don’t start listing all the other authors you think have the combo platter. Save that for another post, or another blog. It would be disrespectful to Sakey and this post, and this blog. And I’m pissed off enough that I’ll probably just go in and delete them.

Guyot

As always, Floyd Landis is innocent. If anyone knows an investigative journalist, please send them here.

by Pari Noskin Taichert

For the past few days, my world has been blanketed in white. Burdened tree branches bend to the carpeted ground and we pray our skylights won’t cave in. Traffic is iffy at best, stalled at worst.

The weathermen thought this history-making storm might drop an inch or two in Albuquerque. Instead, it has deposited more than a foot in my neighborhood. Our friends, who live a few miles closer to the mountains, report 21 inches.

As a convenient metaphor for 2006, the unprecendented weather might work. Or, not.

What is true is that much of last year went in different directions than anticipated.

For example, I planned to write two novels.

And, I did.

The only problem was that I had to write one novel twice.

2006 was like that: loads of activity and not much to show for it. I’d push hard toward a goal and end up somewhere else.

It felt as if Sisyphus and I had traded places. So many ambitions unattained. I didn’t write the first manuscript in my new series. I didn’t finish the short stories. I didn’t attract the attention of a major publisher. I didn’t get a mondo advance for my new book. So many hours "wasted." Wah.

I could fuss just like the people here in Albuquerque who are angered by the stopping power of snow.

But why do that?

Overall, the column of 2006 accomplishments balances the missed opportunities and inefficiencies. I DID finish and sell a manuscript. I DID start a relevant monthly column for Mystery Writers of America’s newsletter. I DID get Murderati up and running with some of the best writers around. I DID commit to the new series and have developed enough of Iris Martin’s backstory to begin composing her life through novels.

Sure, I’m not a national name — with my name, that’ll be a challenge anyway — but, I continue to build audience and readership. Both of my current books are still, happily, in print and making money.

Right now, I’m sitting at my desk. The wall behind my computer is cluttered with inspiring quotations:

"Don’t get it right . . . Get it written!" James Thurber
"You try and you try and you fail, and then you go deeper." Shunryu Suzuki

It also bears two blue practice targets with bullet holes not quite in the center, but close. Tony Hillerman’s blurb for my new book is affixed there, as are both of the Agatha Award nomination letters. One phosphorescent pink Post It stares back at me, its middle cut out in a nice one-inch square (this is a nod to Annie Lamott’s advice to write at least that much a day).

Today, most of these will come down.

You see, I’m one of those goofballs who actually make New Year’s resolutions. In the past, I’ve kept them pocketed away in my computer. Not this year. I want them where I can see them every day.

Sure, they look much like last year’s goals. Again, I’ll push hard and won’t know what directions all that energy will turn and flow . . .

Outside my window, the snow continues to frustrate many people in my town. Me? I built snowmen with my kids.

I packed a wad of the cleanest white and stuffed it hard into an earthen mug. With brio, I doused the ice with Kahlua and milk.

Yeah, I think 2007 is going to be a good year. 

Happy New Year to you all.

by Pari Noskin Taichert

New Mexico is the land of holy tortillas and terrorist burritos. It makes me proud.

The tortilla story gained international status in the 1970s when Maria Rubio, a woman living in Lake Arthur, NM, was making the flour concoctions in a nice hot skillet. Lo and behold! unto this cast iron an image of the face of Jesus appeared in the seared markings on the lard-filled canvas. News of the miracle spread from person to person until television camera crews and reporters abetted the story’s rise into the national consciousness. Thousands of devoted believers queued around street corners to get a glimpse of this wonder. I bet they’re still coming today. Maria is credited with spawning holy food sightings around the world.

These incidents continue to happen in New Mexico — Jesus on toast, the Virgin Mary outlined in the creases on a pumpkin’s side. We all squint to make out the images on our big-screen televisions (or mine, which is the size of a thumbnail). Though some may scoff, many of us find solace in mystical possibilities.

I’ve always wondered what happens to the holy foods later, like, in six months. It’d probably be disrespectful to tell people about that moldy image of Buddha I found the other day on my tofu.

Now for another international tortilla story. This one descends from the heady realm of spirit to the base reality of paranoia. Still, you’ve gotta laugh.

A few years ago, a kid at Marshall Middle School in Clovis, NM, took a class in marketing. For his final project, he decided to make a giant burrito (don’t ask). He got a 30-inch tortilla to house the filling of meat, cheese, lettuce and jalapenos. Well, have you ever tried to keep something this big warm? After much deliberation, he opted to wrap it in tin foil.

On his way to school, he passed many people. Only one was sufficiently flippy about the world and violence in schools to call the police when she saw the large, oblong silver object in the kid’s arms.

Flash forward to a school in total lockdown, all the students gathered in the gymnasium. Anguished parents form a tight circle of fear at the perimeter of the grounds. The principal addresses her charges — trying to stay calm, to instill courage — but her voice trembles in spite of her efforts.

Imagine the moment when the kid, a normal middle schooler — the kind that goes to church with his parents and drinks too much soda pop — realizes that his principal is talking about his burrito. It’s a marvelous image. I can see his pimply face redden, his shocked eyes widen, and his mouth open the smallest bit. Just lovely.

I wish I could’ve made this up.

Both of these stories make me happy for different reasons. I share them with you today as a kind of cheerful present that honors food. After all, most of us will be eating more than usual as we sit down with family and friends. I’ll be at my in-laws’ house; they celebrate Christmas and we celebrate them. Our feast will include tamales (yes, Mike, I love ’em too!), roasted pheasant (personally, shot by my FIL), German stollen and French bread. I hope there isn’t too much buckshot in the birds; last year, I nearly lost a tooth eating the quail . . .

Whatever you do this Christmas — go to church, open presents, dine at a good Chinese restaurant — I hope it’s filled with pleasure.

My best wishes to you all.

There I was, all set to give you a little piece on short story writing.

Then I went and saw ZAPPA PLAYS ZAPPA, aka The Tour De Frank.

Now, I know Frank Zappa is an acquired taste.

But I’m not here to talk about the music specifically.

See, I’ve seen some shows in my time. Probably more than most normal people. And I’ve seen some great ones…

Springsteen and the E Street band; U2; The Rolling Stones; Prince (during the Purple Rain tour); The Cure; Level 42; Billy Joel; Elton John; Van Halen (before they went crazy); Phish; Oingo Boingo; Eric Clapton; the Flaming Lips; Lucinda Williams; Pink Floyd; Santana; Miles Davis; Moby; Etta James; Big Head Todd & The Monsters; David Bowie; Bob Dylan; Elvis Costello; Neil Young; Cheap Trick; the Police; the Kinks; the B-52’s; the Pixies; the Scorpions; Steve Earle; Red Hot Chili Peppers; Tom Waits; Steely Dan; Garth Brooks; Ice-T; REM; Indigo Girls; KISS; BB King; The  Mats (Replacements); and many more.

I list all that so you have the context of what I’m about to say…

Zappa Plays Zappa was the single best show I’ve ever seen.

Dweezil Zappa leads an incredibly talented band that includes "guest" performances by Steve Vai and Terry Bosio. Side note: those of you that think the world’s greatest drummer had the last name of Peart or Bonham or Rich…nuh, uh. It’s Bosio. Trust me. 

What the hell does this have to do with writing? I’m getting there.

Talking with Dweezil after the show, I learned the band was smack in the middle of a 23-city tour. It was their 5th show in five nights,
in the 5th different city. A three hour (yes, three hours) extravaganza
of sound and energy, performing some of the most complex rock music
ever written. But their energy and commitment was so high, so intense,
you’d have thought it was the opening night of the tour.

He talked about how hard it was – not just the touring, but getting the music right, the politics of each venue (wow, is the musician’s union a tough bunch!), and being away from friends and family. Cap all this with the fact that the tour is not sponsored. Dweezil funded getting the thing started, and it has been grassroots since – making enough money one place to afford to go and play another place.

Those that know me, or used to read my Bog (RIP), know how important music is to me and my writing. Probably 75% of my inspiration comes from music, in one way or another. And yes, as I sat there watching this great, great show, I was inspired.

But I was even more inspired when I spoke to Dweezil after the show and he talked about what a difficult thing it is he and the others are doing. But he’s doing it for the love. To expose new generations to his father’s music. To become better himself, by learning to play the music exactly as his father did; to honor his father; to give back.

Steve Vai, possibly the greatest living guitar virtuoso, started with Frank Zappa, and was so excited about the idea of joining this tour he cut his own (very profitable) G-3 tour short. Terry Bosio and Napoleon Murphy Brock basically came out of retirement to go on the road for very little money.

This time, not just from the music itself, but I am truly inspired by these artists and their passion, their dedication. It’s similar to why I love sitting around talking shop with other writers. Sure, it’s fun to sit and dish at conferences – don’t lie that you don’t do it – but my favorite thing about going to a place, anyplace, where writers are gathered is to get inspired. I get inspired by some because of their talent, by others’ discipline, others by their passion and commitment.

What inspires you? Music? Passion? Booze? Mike MacLean’s thighs? Tell me.

Guyot

And, as always: Floyd Landis is innocent. if anyone knows an investigative journlaist looking for a story to make them famous, please send them here.